


no escape from reality

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Child Abuse, Cliffhangers, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolves, banshees, kitsune... How is this Stiles' real life? (Well, here's the thing: it isn't. But he has no idea.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	no escape from reality

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is based on the film **the Truman Show** , starring Jim Carrey.  
> Basic summary from wikipedia: "Truman Burbank is the unsuspecting star of The Truman Show, a reality television program in which his entire life, since before birth, is filmed by thousands of hidden cameras, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and is broadcast live around the world. The show's creator and executive producer Christof is able to capture Truman's real emotion and human behavior when put in certain situations. Truman's hometown of Seahaven is a complete set built under a giant arcological dome in the Los Angeles area. Truman's family and friends are all played by actors, allowing Christof to control every aspect of Truman's life."

“Thank you again for taking the time to speak with us,” the talk show host gushes as the opening music fades and the interview begins. “With the show as it is – running twenty-four seven, managing all those – ”

“Hundreds of cast members,” the director cuts in. “Well, _thousands_ , actually, by this point,” the director hastens to correct himself with a small laugh. He shakes his head and directs a coy smile at the camera. “Not to mention the crew, the producers, the engineers. It’s a whole world, really.”

“It truly is,” the host says, matching the director’s smile. “A world that has captured the attention – and, dare I say, the hearts – of this country.”

“Thank you,” the director says. “It means a lot to hear that kind of thing. To hear that our work is helping others out there.”

“And while the cameras are rolling at all times, with the scenes live streaming in practically every country by now, it’s rare that we’re given a behind the scenes look at the show.”

“It is.”

“Take us back,” the host encourages. “To that first casting call –” 

The director laughs again. “I wouldn’t use that phrasing exactly, but sure. A Polish orphanage.”

“Poland.”

“Mmmhmm. There were a few other children that were considered, but Stiles caught our attention immediately. Even as an infant, you could see that spark in him. I could see that he was our one.”

“That word, ‘spark’ has been used on the show before. Do you use it now deliberately?” The host’s tone takes on a wheedling quality. “Fans have been discussing the possibility of Stiles being magic for a few seasons now. Can you tell us anything?”

“I can’t give anything away just now,” the director says. “Ever since we decided to transition the storyline to incorporate supernatural thriller elements –”

“A move that has _not_ been without its criticisms,” the host points out, a daring glint appearing in her eye. “You’ve been accused of everything from madness to child abuse to even more unsavory things.”

“I believe someone from the Internet called it ‘orchestrating a horrorific Disney-esque snuff film,”’ the director says, not appearing fazed as the words leave his mouth. He looks mildly amused. “But the truth of the matter is, we proved the critics wrong. Ratings are as high as they’ve ever been. Stiles has never been in any real danger. The people who challenged our team’s capability of projecting and maintaining the paranormal theme have been silenced.”

“The believability factor was hotly debated. Why werewolves? Banshees? Kanimas? Why even push the envelope in such a way when the show was successful as it was?”

“The initial storyline, where we chronicled Stiles growing up and facing everyday boyhood struggles, was great. We’re enormously pleased with how a lot of those plotlines unfolded. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: the casting of Scott McCall was genius. There’s acting, and then there’s the rapport that those boys have. Just, _wow_. It was fun to watch them getting up to hijinks in the early days, right? But then, you know, after Claudia’s departure from the show–”

“For our viewers out there who are unfamiliar or simply rusty on their Stiles trivia,” the host cuts in, speaking into the camera. “The woman who played Stiles’ mother decided to leave the show after three seasons to pursue other creative interests.” 

“After Claudia’s departure from the show,” the director continues. “It began to feel too bleak. The death of his mother, the formal ADHD diagnosis, the panic attacks… I mean, the kid was plucked out of a Polish orphanage, so it’s not like we could have predicted the – the exact severity of his emotional response following that. Certain traits, certain mood disorders run in families. Some kids bounce back. We had to get actual licensed physicians and therapists to interact with him on set. We had some close calls. 

But back to my point. Stiles’ life wasn’t fun anymore. He wasn’t enjoying life, so viewers weren’t enjoying watching him.”

“I’ll never forget that one scene,” the host says. Her smile has become a bit watery and her hand is clutched to her chest. “Right after Scott leaves, and he goes to the bathroom to shave his hair off. And then he just stares into the mirror, and you just know that he’s thinking about his mother. Just gave me chills.”

“We needed a tone change.” The director’s tone is firm. “We thought high school and the lacrosse team angle would jazz things up, go for that nostalgic Americana rah-rah experience. The classic nerd to high school hero trajectory. There were even some preliminary conferences with the agent who represents the actress who plays Lydia to renegotiate her contract. We were going to flesh out a romcom strategy that would have probably played out until senior year, maaaaybe college? The timeline was always in flux. 

But it felt stale. We’d all seen that before. We were bored before we even started shooting those scenes. You could tell Stiles thought it was stale too. He would snoop around the house, go through John’s case files in search of some excitement. The headaches he gave the props department with that, let me tell you.”

“So, naturally, the next step was werewolves.” The host is obviously trying to suppress a smile.

“Yes,” the director confirms. “The next step was werewolves.” 

“Can you explain a little bit more of that step?”

“Ever since his character was introduced, Scott has been the fan favorite.” The host nods along with a knowing smile. “Right. So, the writers and I thought, _why not develop his role a bit more?_ The asthma thing, you know, it projected this vulnerability that viewers adored. And it made Stiles quite protective of Scott, helped Stiles see Scott as this little brother he never had. But we knew that it was going to limit our use of him. So we thought, _let’s flip the script._ Stiles was the beginning of the show and will always be the glue that holds it. There’s this quote I love from Coach during the fifth season. _The bigger they are, the bigger they are_.” He grins. “Our show is very big, and so are our characters. They grow in this world. Who know what they’ll do next?”

“Well, you do, I imagine,” the host points out.

“Not always,” the director says. There’s a sour undertone to his answer. “Not always.”

\--

“Dude, I’m not sure about this.”

“The runes are crystal clear, okay?! I cross-referenced them with the books Deaton gave us and the scroll Lydia translated. These are the only directions! End of story!” **_Riiiip._** Stiles must have jabbed his finger so forcefully onto the notebook paper Scott is holding that it punctures a hole practically clean through. “Uhh… woops,” he says, staring at the paper in confusion. He thought he had just tapped it for, y’know, _emphasis._ Not bodily harm. “Wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

“Of course not,” Scott sighs, eyeing the paper and then his locker handle. “Remind me not to let you borrow any more of my stuff, alright?”

“Yeah, like your super werewolfy self is so dainty and delicate you strain your thumbs by cracking a peanut.” 

Scott chuckles weakly, his gaze distant, probably already thinking about the next thing on his endlessly long and important Alpha werewolf agenda. He stays quiet.

“You’re not pissed are you?” Stiles asks hours later, when they’re both seated in the back of their AP Physics class and pretending to listen to the teacher discuss the intricacies of black hole galaxies or some shit that Stiles had already Wikipedia’d a couple of summers ago when he was bored, at home, alone. 

“Pissed at what?” Scott replies, barely bothering to whisper. He’s outlining the equations in the textbook in chunky black ink and obviously in his own world. Stiles frowns.

“I don’t know. At me? The notebook I unintentionally executed in the hallway? The Kardashian sisters? The hag we have to boil alive in her own feces something this weekend, y’know, when we have time?”

“I have work tonight until eight,” Scott says dully, not rising to the bait. “Can the hag boiling wait until after then?”

Stiles shrugs. “Just don’t bother showering after work then. If the hag looks as nasty on the inside as she does on the outside, it’s not going to be a pleasant show for the old nostrils. I might go old school bandit style and wear a bandana over my face.”

“Sounds cool,” Scott says, in that same dead-inside voice that is really starting to tick Stiles off. Or scare him. Probably both. 

“Super.” Stiles commences on his own Physics doodling sesh and tries to shake off the weird feeling. “I’ll bring the cauldron crock pot thing and stuff for the fire. You bring the bat eye goo stuff and, of course, the hag herself. Deaton still has her trapped in that perfume bottle and it’s probably at the clinic.”

“Yep. Meet at the preserve at ten.”

Once upon a time, practically what feels like a different lifetime ago, Stiles felt weird discussing the dirty details of his werewolf fraternizing and supernatural crime fighting out in the open. He would constantly glance over his shoulder, maybe catch someone’s eye awkwardly and babble about World of Warcraft until they retreated in confusion and/or disinterest. 

Now though… Stiles just doesn’t _care._ His dad knows. All of his friends who matter know. If the whole town found out, well. Maybe it would be for the better. It’s crazy that it hasn’t happened yet, frankly.

Sometimes, Stiles has to sit back and marvel at the lengths to which Beacon Hills has remained oblivious to the things that go bump in the night. It’s actually impressive, Stiles has to admit.

Mass destruction of hospitals and police departments, teens dying left and right in gruesome murders – maybe it’s drugs! Mountain lions! Maybe it’s that new rap and rock music, maybe it’s the environment polluting our brain cells! Maybe it’s gluten! Maybe we just don’t care because it’s just easier to move along and pretend everything is all right even in the face of every piece of contradictory evidence!

Yeah, it’s _easier to forget._

Sometimes, Stiles wishes he could forget. When he feels like he’s on the verge of it, really close to healing some mental wounds that have scabbed over and popped open again and again – something else happens. 

Like the school bell chime announcing a shift of classes, the roar of a pissed off hag nudges Stiles’ brain back from the semi-functional PTSD recovery zone to _holy shit danger how am I going to survive this shit show this time help help_

Sometimes, Stiles stares up at the sky and ponders how God – or whoever is up there behind the clouds – is having a mighty good laugh at his expense. 

\--

“You’re not gonna use this are you?” The actor who plays Scott McCall wipes his eyes and lets out a long groan. “I don’t – _shit_ , I don’t know why I’m crying – ”

“It’s alright,” the host assures him. “These interviews will be condensed and edited as part of a montage on the Special Features portion of the season six DVD. We just want to get an idea of what it’s like for you to play a character for such a long period of time, and in such an unconventional way. Take your time. Please.”

The actress who plays Lydia leans over and hands Scott a tissue. He takes it with a grateful smile and, after a few blows and a deep sigh, starts over. 

“Sorry about that,” he says, voice still rough. “It’s just emotional, I guess, because I’ve been apart of the show since I was – what? Six years old? I grew up with Stiles. I was – I _am_ an actor but, like, you don’t go through all those years with people and not develop relationships. It’s not like other jobs where, you know, you’re on set for eight hours, twelve hours, and then you go home. I live in Beacon Hills. It’s home. When I do have off – ”

“Like when you went to visit your dad over the summer during season three, right after Melissa and Rafael split,” Lydia says, nodding in remembrance. 

“Right, that was the storyline on the show,” Scott says. “Us mains do get opportunities to do that every few months, which is nice. There’s always an explanation written into the show so it’s not like we just disappeared and Stiles freaks out.”

“Claudia, during season two?” the host asks grimly.  


“Yeah, her daughter was getting married in the Caribbean on short notice, so she just bolted one day,” Lydia explains. “It worked out because that whole thing was able to be worked into the frontotemporal dementia storyline later on, but at the time the producers were pissed. Now they’re much more strict about how we can request off. You usually have to file a request a few months in advance so the writers can accommodate it in a believable way.”

“Right, right, of course,” the host says, nodding. “So how was your break, Scott? Wait, I’m sorry – Do you mind if I call you Scott?”

Scott beams at her.  
“Yeah, of course! So, it was awesome to like, go sight seeing and catch up with my family – my other family, that is. But like, it would be so weird coming back to all that and having to answer to a different name, go to sleep in a different bed.” Lydia nods along in understanding. “My mom would call my name when we’d be at like, the grocery store or something and I’d ignore her. Not on purpose, of course, but because I’m not used to it. To me, I am Scott. I answer to Scott.”

“It really is confusing sometimes,” Lydia chimes in. “Like, which part of our lives are acting? Which part is real?”

“Well, the werewolves aren’t real,” the host says, seemingly to interject some levity. 

“Yeah, no, the werewolves are not real!” Scott agrees with a laugh. “Sorry, boys and girls out there! Monsters don’t exist. But yeah, it’s _amazing_ what some makeup and well-placed shadows along with sound effects can do. We had to do a ton of rehearsals before actually shooting the real thing with Stiles, but it has worked out so far.”

“Yeah, it was funny to watch,” Lydia says. “In the first episode, when Stiles is actually trying to convince Scott that Scott is a werewolf and Scott is all ‘naaah!’ You could practically hear the producers’ sighs of relief when that happened. Like, _yes._ This is going to work. He believes it. He’s in.”

“There have been close calls,” Scott admits. 

“Well, yeah, of course.”

“There have been times where I had to duck behind some trees, transform my face and teeth in literally five seconds to make my mark, and Stiles is standing right there, oblivious.”

“My job is easier,” Lydia says. “Some discrete microphones in my blouse make banshee calls really easy on the throat.”

“Do you ever feel badly about that?” the host wonders. “All of you being fake, with Stiles none the wiser?”

Scott’s expression immediately darkens. “We’re not _fake_ ,” he snarls. “The world may be controlled, but it’s not fake. It’s never been fake.”

\--

Stiles dumps a pile of paper on his bed. Different colors, different sizes, glossy folders and pre-addressed envelopes, pictures of smiling co-eds posing with books on green grass staring up at him. Malia watches, unimpressed.

“College,” she says, in the same tone of voice someone might refer to gray chicken nugget meat or prison camps. Gray chicken nugget meat being served in prison camps maybe. 

“Yes, college,” Stiles answers, in turn using his Time to Teach Malia Things Voice. Both he and Malia have grown annoyed of it by this point, but old habits die hard. “It’s the place kids typically go to after high school.”

“I’m barely passing high school!” Malia exclaims. “You had to help me forge my book report on Catcher of the Fly –”

“Catcher in the Rye,” Stiles corrects. Malia waves her hand.

“Catcher in the Fly makes a lot more sense, but whatever. My point stands. Why would I go to college? Why do I need college?”

“Because education is important,” Stiles says, picking up one of the college brochures to look closer at one of the degree descriptions. He feels like an afterschool special. “It lifts us up where we belong. Or maybe that’s love. But learning is love, so there you go.”

“I don’t understand you.” Malia sounds exhausted. She collapses back on the bed. With her hair fanned out on the pillow and a pout on her face, Stiles can’t help himself. She looks adorable. 

“Come on,” he says, pushing some of the paper onto the floor to make room for himself on the bed beside her. Malia’s eyes remain glued to the ceiling but she allows him to take her hand. “Don’t you want to experience something different? Meet some new people?”

“Lately whenever I meet new people, they tend to want to kill me and the pack, so I’m good on the new friend front, thanks,” Malia says. Stiles concedes her point.

“But experiencing new things,” Stiles continues, stroking her hair. “That’d be cool, I think. Leave Beacon Hills, go somewhere else, maybe New York or –” Malia shoots up at that.

“Leave Beacon Hills?” Malia demands, suddenly looking so much like the scared wild coyote Stiles and Scott had to rescue from the woods. “What do you mean, _leave Beacon Hills?_ ”

“Not forever!” Stiles is taken aback by the sudden frenzy. “I might not leave Beacon Hills, I was just saying. It’s an option. If I did leave, I would come back –”

“You can’t leave Beacon Hills, Stiles,” Malia says. She looks close to tears. “You’ve never left Beacon Hills. It’s your home.”

“Look, I respect your – whatever territorial instinct you have that makes a place yours and – ” Stiles pauses as a thought catches up with him. “Wait a minute. Why do you say I’ve never left Beacon Hills?”

Malia seems to deflate. “I don’t know, okay, I just figured since you’ve lived here all your life.” 

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says, frowning. “I was born in Beacon Hills but I’ve been to like, the city. And track meets out of town. And I’ve been to the beach. Money is tight, alright, so it’s not like me and Dad can just jet off to wherever. I’m not some sheltered kid.”

“But why would you want to leave?” Malia asks plaintively. To Stiles it sounds like, _why would you want to leave me?_ Which is kind of clingy for their relationship level, but okay. Malia has been through some shit.

“Come on,” Stiles says, reaching for her. “We’ll talk about this later.” Malia’s growl is muffled by his shoulder and she grips him tighter. “Okaaay, maybe never. Subject change, got it.”

“You’re mine,” Malia whispers fiercely and kisses him. Then even more paper gets pushed off the bed.

When Stiles goes to collect them from the floor later, he realizes that all the brochures and pamphlets were for Beacon Hills University, Beacon Hills Community College, Beacon Technical Institute, and Beacon Culinary Academy anyway. 

\--

“I grew up watching the show, so when I heard about the auditions for a new cast member I guess you can say I _pounced_ on it.” The actress who plays Malia Tate winks. “It’s been the role of a life time. Malia is damaged in some ways, but then again so is Stiles. I think they’ve been helping each other to heal.” 

“What are some differences between you and your character, besides the werecoyote aspect?”

“Malia’s incredibly intelligent, but she’s more of a street smart kind of girl. I actually went to college, got my PhD in medieval English poetry and considered teaching. Acting has always been my passion though.” 

“It’s interesting,” the host says. “To talk to you after speaking to some of the other mains. You sound more detached from your character than say, Scott and Lydia.”

“I think that’s to be expected.” The actress shrugs. “They grew up on the show. I didn’t join the fun until my twenties, so I’m my own person separate from all that. Malia Tate isn’t really ingrained in my identity.” 

“Yet,” the host says, with a teasing smile. The actress laughs and attempts a howl.

\--

_**Derek Hale facebook** _

Derek Hale twitter

Derek Hale new york 

Nothing. Nada. Not a single trace of Derek Hale is to be found on the world wide web except for some years old articles about the Hale fire. For the first time, Google and the internet have failed Stiles Stilinski and it sucks butter balls. 

“Whatcha doing, kid?” The sheriff is standing in the doorway to Stiles’ room, a knowing smirk on his face. Perhaps Stiles could have been a bit more discrete when slamming the screen of his laptop down. “Do I have to research parental control Internet settings again? After the last time –”

“ – that we agreed to never speak about again?” Stiles finishes for him. The sheriff levels him a look. “C’mon, Dad, I was just doing homework and you startled me.”

“ _Homework_ homework?” The sheriff asks. “Or homework _homework_?”

Stiles blinks. “How am I supposed to know which emphasis is which?”

Sheriff opens his mouth to reply, then changes his mind. “Anywaaay,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be working late tonight, so don’t wait up.” 

“New case?” Stiles asks, heart rate already ratcheting up. The sheriff raises his hands, placating. 

“Nothing exciting, don’t worry, just some new boys that I’d like to keep a closer eye on.” Stiles eyes his father suspiciously for a few moments, but the sheriff seems collected enough that nothing sets off warning alarms.

“Right,” Stiles says. He swivels his chair to face the computer again. “It’s only four, so I assume you’re eating dinner there. Just because you’ve been working more lately does not give you grounds for stress eating yourself into a heart attack. No burgers and fries or I will know.” 

“You always do.” Stiles isn’t even facing him but he can practically hear his father’s eye roll. “If you need anything, call my cell. Like I said, I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up.”

“Got it. Love you, daddy-o.” The sheriff rustles Stiles’ hair before leaving the room.

“Love you too, son.”

\--

“Twin boys!” the host exclaims when the actor who plays John Stilinski shows her the photo on his phone. “How did you even manage –? How do you manage?”

“It’s rough,” he admits. “The writers have had to write me out of a lot of episodes, having John work late hours, creating some out of state conferences for sheriffs to attend. I don’t even know if those things even exist in the real world… My wife is one of the producers, so she has been incredibly understanding. She gets how much the show means at this point.”

“That is just really amazing,” the host says, wide eyes glued to the actor. “Balancing it all. Getting to experience real fatherhood at last.”

\-- 

When Stiles hears the click of the front door close, he returns to his room. He locks that door and then proceeds to line some mountain ash in front of it. He does the same with the window. After drawing the blinds and double-checking the security measures he’s established, he goes to his closet.

Flannel shirts of different patterns smack his face as he tries to reach the back to where the box is. It’s one of those old time traveling chests, with buckles and locking capability, but Stiles has never bothered with any of those things. The things he’s worried about don’t really care about combination locks and large iron keys. If they want it, they want it. Even the paste of mountain ash he rubbed into the leather straps would be futile when confronted by a strong enough magic. 

With a deep breath, Stiles opens the box.

\--

“What the _fuck_ is he doing in there?” the director demands. He and his team are clustered around monitors. “Is there any better camera angle then this? All we can see is his back.”

“The closest ones would be the flannel buttons, but they’re useless in that light and at that angle,” an assistant tells him regretfully. “We had to uninstall the bigger specs during the nogitsune episodes when special effects needed the closets during the night terror shots.”

“Right, shit,” the director says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just – go back to the other one. No not that one, _that_ one – Jesus! What is he doing in there, jacking off? Don’t kids use the internet for porn these days?” 

“He’s definitely looking at something,” a producer says. “But until he moves back into the main room this is the best shot we’re gonna get.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

\--

“He’s definitely looking at it, you’ll see, you’ll see – oh my god!” The show is playing on a small television set behind the bar and some patrons are doing their habitual after work beer sipping and Stiles watching. “Seriously guys, what did I tell you?” a woman cries. “It’s the jacket!”

“I hate this storyline,” one man at the bar says grouchily, but his eyes are still glued to the screen. “Best thing the show ever did was bring in the werewolves.”

“Oh shut up and drink your beer,” another man tells him. 

“They removed all physical traces of him, but they couldn’t erase the memory,” a mousy looking woman sighs. 

“The memory of who?” the grouchy man demands.

“Shh! Just watch!”

\--

Stiles clutches the leather jacket in his hands and just stares at it. He’s pissed off. Just so _utterly_ pissed off. 

“I should throw this piece of shit away,” he mutters to himself. “Not like he’s coming back for it any time soon.” He sniffs it gingerly. “Real leather though. Eh. Maybe worth keeping.”

His hands are shaking though. And his nose suddenly feels congested and the air in the closet is dusty and dark and - 

He shoves the jacket back into the box, slams the lid shut, and then slams the closet door shut for good measure. He crabs walks until his back hits the side of his bed. 

“Stupid,” he says, balling his fists and glaring at the ceiling. “Stupid. So stupid.”

As if on cue, the jangly ringtone Stiles assigned for Scott cuts through the sullen silence. 

“Bro!” Stiles feels relief to hear Scott’s cheerful voice on the end of the line. “I’m thinking a pizza and video game session tonight? My mom said she saw your dad driving into town in his uniform so I figured we could hang out.”

Stiles smiles. Good old Scott. So oblivious to the shit Stiles has gotten himself into. “That sounds awesome, buddy. I’ll be over in a bit.”

\--

The thing about Derek was – there _was_ No Thing. But there _almost_ was. There could have been. Maybe? Maybe Stiles is overthinking it, as he tends to do. He overthinks about how he overthinks things. 

There are so many things that Stiles wants to forget about his life. His mom dying. Allison dying. The really embarrassing time he popped his first boner during sixth grade and it was his turn to stand in front of the room to present his paper on Abraham Lincoln. Of course the teacher had assigned Lydia to go right before him, like she had known that kind of thing was going to happen. Diabolical.

But Stiles doesn’t want to forget about Derek, even though everything in the world is trying to make him do exactly that.

Stiles doesn’t want to forget about that day. He plays it back in his head: 

Stiles barging into the loft like the obnoxious little shit he is won’t to be, demanding answers to something stupid. He gets that it’s stupid by now, okay? But he and Derek had gotten to the point where they could piss each other off and still be cool. Stiles thought that, honestly. Not quite friends, not quite enemies, but maybe on the precipice of something mighty cool. Maybe something amazing.

And Stiles thought, fuck it. Let me try. Let me ask.

“You do this,” Derek had hissed. “You always do this! You can’t just _say_ things like that –”

“Well sorry for breaking the script,” Stiles shoots back sarcastically and Derek flinches, turning his back and shouting over his shoulder, “Just leave Stiles. You don’t want to do this. Believe me.”

“Do what?” Stiles said, chasing Derek down as the other man paced from the windows to the sofa to the kitchen. “Try to be your friend? Try to be a _normal fucking human being_? I’m sorry that I –”

“Don’t ever be sorry!” And it was at this point that Stiles really got a good look at Derek. At his face. He was crying. Or pretty damn fucking close. His eyes were shimmering dangerously and his teeth were bared in some animalistic way that somehow didn’t call to mind werewolves or monsters. Just sorrow and rage. “God, Stiles, you _don’t get it._ You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Then why are you so pissed off?” Stiles exclaimed, raising his hands as if pleading to the gods of common sense (who were obviously not listening or just purposely ignoring him for fun.) 

“I’m not pissed off at you,” Derek said, sounding quite pissed off in Stiles’ general direction. “I’m pissed off at the situation.”

“What situation?!” Stiles felt like he was losing his mind. It was as if he and Derek were having two different conversations. “The situation where I ask you out to coffee so we can –”

“Stop right there,” Derek growled. “You don’t get it.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly. “I’m stopping. I actually do get it – I’m only seventeen. I’m skinny, my nose is weird, I talk way too much, I tend to make inappropriate and frankly cruel jokes at your expense, I tried to have you arrested for your sister’s murder, I tried to convince Scott to kill you or let you die, I’ve abandoned you in your time of need, I sometimes have really bad breath in the morning but I don’t brush my teeth, I just chew a pack of gum and –”

It was then that Derek kissed him.

After the requisite amount of shock and bliss toned down enough for Stiles to speak again, he croaked, “So you chose the moment I was _confessing my bad mouth hygiene habits_ to kiss me – why?”

“Stiles, you’re real,” Derek said simply, as if it were a blessing and a curse. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Stiles’. It was such a weird and tender gesture. “You’re real and I’m not.”

Stiles flicked one of Derek’s biceps. “Feel pretty real to me, buddy.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, sounding desperate. “Stiles.”

“Derek,” Stiles repeats.

“Stiles, You don’t know everything.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles answered sourly. “I already covered the ‘I’m too young’ thing during my low self esteem monologue but I’m not totally clueless, okay, I use the Internet –”

“I want to tell you – everything,” Derek said. 

Stiles stared at him, never feeling so scared or so excited in his life. “So tell me.”

The door to the loft opened and a team of what looked like soldiers burst into the room, aiming their weapons at both Stiles and Derek.

“Come on, Derek.” A thin man with brown hair and glasses pushed through the line of soldiers. “It’s time.”

Stiles took a double take. “ _Mr. Harris?_ ” he squeaked. “Didn’t you die?”

Mr. Harris – or his militant doppelganger – just laughed. “Hello, Stiles. I’m sorry you have to see this, but Derek here is very sick. I always worried this would happen when you returned to us in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles stared at Derek, expecting him to bust out the claws and fangs at any moment but he just – stood there. 

“Derek?” Stiles said, panic rising in his chest. “Derek?!”

Reanimated, Derek turned to Stiles and gripped his face. “Stiles, Stiles – listen to me. This is fake. This is all fake. It’s a show.”

Mr. Harris adjusted his glasses. “Get him.”

The soldiers charged forward and seized Derek by his arms, a few other soldiers lifted him up to grab his legs. Stiles stood in shock for a second – why was Derek allowing this? Why wasn’t he shifting, howling to the pack? Why wasn’t he fighting? 

Well, Derek _was_ fighting. He was twisting and kicking and shouting as any human man would in his situation – “IT’S FAKE, STILES! I’M NOT A WEREWOLF! I’M NOT A WEREWOLF! IT’S FAKE!” 

“I suggest standing back, Stiles,” Mr. Harris said, using the same condescending tone he directed at kids during chemistry class. “Werewolves can be quite dangerous when they’re enraged, I’m sure you know that.”

Stiles was fighting too, but there were too many soldiers in too small of a room, and Stiles was just one boy. “DEREK!” He kicked at every leg and punched and pushed to no avail. “DEREK!”

“Your friend is sick, Stiles. Very sick.” 

“STILES – NEW YORK – COME _FIND ME –_ ”

That was the last thing Stiles heard Derek scream as the soldiers took him away. 

No, Stiles cannot forget that day. Not ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel coming soon.


End file.
